[Intro: A slow, muffled THUD of a hand striking thick leather. It sounds like dirt hitting a coffin. A detuned acoustic guitar enters, heavily palm-muted so the notes don't ring—they just clatter and choke. Four bars of this stifled rhythm.] [Verse 1: The single vocal enters, hushed and conversational, close to the microphone. The repetitions are murmured, like a secret kept from oneself.] I kept the Polaroid, I kept the brass key. I kept the brass key. Folded up the letters that you wrote to me. Packed them in the shoebox, heavy and damp. Heavy and damp. Pushed it past the shadow of the closet lamp. Starved it of the light. Starved it of the light. [Chorus: The bass clarinet groans for the first time, a low, woody frequency that vibrates the floorboards. The vocal delivery becomes slightly more urgent, but remains trapped in the hushed space.] Pull the white plastic over the green. Over the green. Seal up the edges so nothing is seen. It doesn't die quietly under the snow. It cooks in the dark where the oxygen goes. Making silage. Silage. Sweet and sour rot. Sweet and sour rot. Keeping what I fear, pretending I forgot. Pretending I forgot. [Verse 2: The acoustic guitar thuds continue, relentless and un-decaying. The vocals tighten, leaning into the harsh consonant sounds.] The ink is bleeding through the yellowed page. The yellowed page. I thought it was respect, but it is just a cage. Just a cage. Afraid to throw it out, afraid to let it breathe. I swallow down the poison every time I leave. Every time I leave. Mmm... Mmm... [Chorus: The bass clarinet pushes into a slightly higher, more discordant register. The leather thuds strike harder.] Pull the white plastic over the green. Over the green. Seal up the edges so nothing is seen. It doesn't die quietly under the snow. It cooks in the dark where the oxygen goes. Making silage. Silage. Sweet and sour rot. Sweet and sour rot. Keeping what I fear, pretending I forgot. Pretending I forgot. [Instrumental Break: The vocals drop out entirely. The palm-muted guitar thrashes violently against the strings, but the sound remains completely choked and muted. The bass clarinet wails a long, sour, descending note that sounds exactly like expanding gas groaning against a thick plastic barrier. It is deeply uncomfortable. Lasts for six tight bars.] [Bridge: The guitar stops. Only the hand hitting the leather case remains. The vocals are nearly a whisper, utilizing the Agent of Impact technique of staggered breaths.] Cut the bag open. Cut the bag open. Watch the steam rise in the freezing air. The freezing air. It smells like the summer we buried down there. Buried down there. Ah... Ah... [Outro: The acoustic guitar returns for one final, slow progression, still muted. The bass clarinet lets out a soft, dying wheeze.] Just the rot. Just the rot. Silage. Silage. [The hand strikes the leather case one last time. Silence.]
